


Bottomless

by thatsweetmysteryoflife



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, Gen, this is ridiculous and yet I am still proud of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-05 19:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsweetmysteryoflife/pseuds/thatsweetmysteryoflife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale, Crowley, and the question "who has a lesser tolerance for alcohol?" is not a situation you'd expect to end well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bottomless

**Author's Note:**

> An unapologetic gift fic in response to a prompt from a genius friend on Tumblr.

Crowley deposited two glass bottles on the table in Aziraphale's back room with a definitive _thunk_. "We're doing it today," he declared, and sat down in one of the chairs, letting his limbs sprawl every-which-way. Aziraphale blinked up at him in bemusement, carefully setting aside his first edition of _Paradise Lost_ (which was actually not a first edition at all, but Milton's rough draft, on which Aziraphale had scribbled many helpful comments about the accuracy of Milton's story, none of which had made it to the final print).

"What exactly are we doing today?" he asked mildly. Crowley shot him a glare over the top of his sunglasses.

"Drinking, angel. Drinking until we can't anymore. We've always wanted to see which of us can out-drink the other, right? Now's a good a day as any, so." He gestured, and a pair of tumblers were suddenly _there_ on the table. "Drink up."

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow quizzically. "This seems a little abrupt, my dear. Why on earth--" _Oh._ "Are we drinking because today is the day of the failed Apocalypse, Crowley?"

The demon opened his mouth, shut it again, made a disparaging _tch_ noise, crossed his arms, uncrossed them, hitched one leg over the other, and finally forced out a hissed "Yes."

"All right, then," Aziraphale agreed, and cleared his papers off the table. Popping the cork on the first bottle, he poured a splash into each tumbler and handed one to Crowley.

"To the Apocalypse that never actually happened," Crowley toasted, raising his glass. "And let's hope it never does."

"Hear, hear," echoed Aziraphale slightly doubtfully, and threw back his glass.

\----

"No, see," Aziraphale managed to force out, "That, that's just being polite," and he pitched forwards until his face hit the table with a loud thump.

"Nah, 'ssss not," Crowley said, with a shake of his head that was supposed to be emphatic but rather made him look alarmingly similar to a wet dog. "Holdin' doors an' offerin' yer arm an' alla that, 'sss dead to 'em now, it _died_ , angel--"

"Chivalry," the angel declared with his reddened face pressed into the table. "Knights. Always liked knights. Nice to their horses."

Crowley rolled his head sideways to stare at him. "Eh?"

"Knights!" Aziraphale insisted, waving a hand in the air as the other tentatively patted the tabletop in search of his glass. "Liked knights. Some of 'em, anyway."

"Killed a lotta people, angel," muttered Crowley, and noisily sucked the last dregs of alcohol from his glass before fumbling for the bottle.

"Less people than fire," declared the angel with a voice like slate, and when Crowley looked up, Aziraphale had sat up ramrod straight in his chair. "Knights. Killed. Less. People. Than. Fire," he intoned, poking one finger vehemently into the table to emphasize each word, then listed over to the side again. "Don't like fire," he mumbled disconsolately, and somehow managed to pour the remnants of his glass straight into his mouth.

Crowley reached over and somewhat hesitantly, patted the curly head laying in front of him. "Nobody likesss fire, love," he said comfortingly after a hiccup, "not even me," then slumped over to lay his head beside Aziraphale's. "Jussst, jussst gonna...sit for a minnit..."

\----

When they awoke the next morning (which actually happened to be three days later), both strikingly hungover and filled with the same vague sense of shame, it was decided the contest had been a draw.


End file.
